


Can't Remember How to Forget

by comefeedtherainn



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood, M/M, RvB Reverse Big Bang, super minor tuckinglina in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comefeedtherainn/pseuds/comefeedtherainn
Summary: Everything’s gotten pretty fucking hairy, and Grif has his gun drawn on two sets of maroon armor, one containing Dick Simmons and the other a fucking jackass. Well, maybe they both contain a jackass. But one of them is his jackass.Written in collaboration with twinkletwinkleunclefloyd on tumblr, dorcas_gustine here on ao3, for the RVB Reverse Big Bang!





	Can't Remember How to Forget

“Alright, Simmons. I have some shit I wanna say, and I need you to not talk while I do it.” Grif waits a beat, nodding when he’s met with silence. “Good. Alright. So. Uh. You and me…I mean, me and you…or – uh. Us. We- hey!”

Grif reaches out, snatching the volleyball as it tries to roll away from him. He turns it in his hands, scowling accusingly at the scribbled likeness of Simmons. “I’m trying to talk, here! Don’t be a fucking dick!” He sets it back down carefully, glaring at it challengingly, but it doesn’t move again. Satisfied, he lets out a heavy sigh and tries to start again. “So, yeah. I…listen. I didn’t wanna…I didn’t mean…the stuff I said? Well, I meant some of it. But I…you mean…stuff to me, and I’m…I love you. A lot. I mean, I thought you knew that, but it kinda seemed like you didn’t know that, and I realized that’s probably because I never actually said anything, but fuck, man, do I have to spell everything out for you?”

He scowls down at the ball, then glances to the side as he feels the eyes of the rest of them; the entire squad giving him the same dry, vaguely disapproving stare they always give. He hadn’t intended for them to come out that way, and he’d drawn the helmets rather than their actual faces to make it easier (not because he’s forgotten what they looked like, goddamnit, no, he fucking remembers, okay? Fuck you.) But they still came out like that; dry. Disapproving.

Grif huffs, getting to his feet to pace. “Don’t fucking look at me like that, alright? This shit is hard. We can’t all be fucking dramatic with the teammate love confessions!” He grimaces, his stomach swooping as he says the word aloud. And god, does he love Simmons. Loves him so much he’s sick with it. And he thought Simmons knew that, he thinks he’s made it pretty fucking clear. Sure, he’s never said the actual word to anyone but himself and his weird-ass volleyball family (he’s not going crazy, he’s not going crazy, it was just a joke, it’s still just a joke), but he’s done other things. Saved his life a couple of times, had his own saved right back. Patched up wounds, spiritual and physical, shared his secrets and his body and his mind.

He didn’t think Simmons would believe him when he said he was quitting him. Him, specifically. Grif had wanted to say the worst thing he could think of just to get Simmons to let him fucking go, Simmons could never just fucking let anything go. And it had worked devastatingly well. Grif had split his knuckles slamming them into the nearest boulder as he watched the pelican take Simmons away. Take the rest of his family away, and leave him behind on a moon with nothing but himself and his fucking principles.

He's not sorry he refused to go find Church. He’s really not. They’ve lost Church so many fucking times, and Grif just wants the last time to be that. The last damn time. Tucker and Caboose can torture themselves all they want, over and over and over for an asshole that isn’t even the asshole they were friends with, just a fucked up mirror of him. But Grif isn’t gonna go along with it, not anymore. He’s just too fucking tired.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Grif snaps again, whirling around and glaring at all of the disapproving stares surrounding his feet. He feels a little shaky on them, his knees weak, and realizes he hasn’t eaten yet. It’s nearly sundown. “I didn’t kill the fucker, and I sure as shit didn’t ask for him to come back! You’re the dumbasses that come running every time he gets himself into shit. Fuck him, fuck you!” He lands a solid kick on Simmons’ face, and bursts into tears, sinking to his knees.

***

The first time Grif had kissed Simmons was in the Warthog, in the cool shade as they tried to keep themselves from having fucking heat strokes. They’d been talking about…something stupid, Grif can’t really remember. It didn’t matter, the majority of their fucking conversations never mattered. And yet, they did. Simmons’ stupid ass questions kept him thinking, even if they were nonsense, like who would win in a fight, or not as deep as Grif had assumed, like why they were here. Grif thinks that one could probably be deep, if they tried hard enough.

Simmons had kissed him first, nearly giving Grif a heart attack. He’d had a mortifying crush on that fucking kiss-ass for years, and his brain had literally shut down at the idea that that kiss-ass liked him right back. Simmons had just turned to stare at him for a long moment, and Grif was just looking over to ask him what the fuck his problem was when Simmons made his move. Grif still remembers how soft his lips were (he applied and reapplied chapstick all day like it was his fucking job, back then), and how warm his cheeks were when they were flushed red. He’d felt like he hardly weighed anything when he’d settled in Grif’s lap, their chests pressed tightly together as they made themselves even warmer like a pair of fucking idiots. Felt good though. It had felt really, really good.

Grif lays in bed alone on the moon, running his fingertips across his own lips over and over and trying to hold onto the memory of kissing Simmons. They did that a lot more on the moon than they had at any other point in their lives together, and Grif had forgotten to appreciate it while Simmons was still around. He’d also forgotten to mention that at some point he’d fallen deeply, hopelessly fucking love with him. So now he’s alone, with his principles and no Simmons, no affection. Volleyball Simmons thinks he’s a tool. And Grif is not fucking crazy enough to kiss a volleyball. Yet. Probably.

***

It’s been sixty seven days, twelve hours, and six minutes and Grif can’t remember what Simmons’ hair feels like.

He’s been running his fingers through shit all day trying to remember; his own hair, grass, dirt, but nothing’s working and he’s feeling a little short of breath. For some reason this is very important, very very important, he can’t forget this because if he forgets this he’ll slowly forget everything and if Simmons never comes back for him ( _why would he come back? Why the fuck would he come back for you?_ ) he needs to remember.

Grif is tearing apart the drawers in their room -his room, just his, now- and wheezing slightly as he makes a goddamn mess feeling up all of his clothes. He’s not crazy, he’s not crazy. He stops dead when his fingers brush something soft, and he pulls it out so fast he nearly upends the entire dresser. An old t-shirt, Simmons has had it for years and worn it so thin it’s gone soft and a little see-through. Grif swallows thickly as he runs his fingertips along the material, then twists it around between the digits and presses it to his face. Fuck, it still smells like him. Probably because it’s been buried in that drawer. Grif sits slowly on the bed, breathing a little easier as he holds the shirt reverently to his face.

***

The faucet in the bathroom is loose, and Grif can’t get it to stop dripping. He paces along to the beat, rubbing at his arms and running his fingers repeatedly through his hair. “It’s not like I could find you if I wanted to,” he tells Simmons. No, fake Simmons. “You didn’t tell me where you were going. And I don’t have any way to leave. So, technically, this is your fault.” He swallows, feeling guilty immediately after the words come out of his mouth. His teeth grind together as the faucet continues to drip into the silence.

“I just want you to come back,” he continues, resuming rubbing his arms and twitching as the dripping seems to get louder and louder until it’s deafening. “Just come get me. Come-fuck!” He whirls around and grabs the nearest blunt object, the wrench he’d been trying to fix the faucet with, and uses it to clobber the thing instead. He keeps striking it over and over and until the faucet breaks clean off, spraying him in the chest with water. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he snarls, throwing the wrench against the wall. It clatters noisily to the floor, and he spends the next hour trying to wrap the faucet with enough tape and shit to get it to stop flooding the bathroom. At least he’s occupied.

***

Grif is out of the base the second he hears the rush of wind, the tell-tale hum of a pelican engine. He never runs, doesn’t like to so he can ration his inhaler, but he breaks into a sprint when he sees maroon armor stepping out of the bird. Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck.

He doesn’t call his name, just runs as fast as he fucking can. He’s so impatient that he forgets to look where he’s going, falling flat on his face as a bit of terrain catches his bare foot. Oh, right. He isn’t even sure where he left his armor, if he’s being honest. They might need a minute for him to find it. Cursing to himself and at this throbbing toe he pushes himself up. “Simmons,” he gasps when he hears footsteps, looking up with a pounding heart. “Simmons, wh-“ He pauses, going still as the barrel of a rifle presses firmly to his forehead. “…Simmons.”

Simmons looks down at him, and Grif can’t see his face behind the blue visor (was it always blue? It must’ve been. He must’ve forgotten already) but Grif knows his expression is disdainful. How could it not be? Maybe Simmons came back just to fucking shoot him for being a piece of shit. Would make sense.

Grif hears his voice, familiar and yet different, twisted somehow. “Yeah, not quite, fatass.” And then everything is black.

***

He wakes up on a thin mat in a semi dark room, shivering slightly from the chill. His head is fucking pounding, a searing pain at the side of his skull. He lifts a hand to rub the spot, groaning, and swallows around his dry throat. Grif nearly leaps out of his skin when he feels a hand on his arm, throwing it off and pushing himself up to sit and defend himself.

“Woah, Jesus, easy!” a voice hisses.

“Simmons?” Grif swallows, his mind racing. Once his eyes begin to adjust to the dark he can see his face, yellow in the small slivers of light that come through the bars – cell, they’re in a cell. Simmons is out of his armor, his clothes rumpled like he’s been wearing them for a while. He’s got a bit of scruff, like he hasn’t shaved in a few days, and under his eyes Grif can just barely see hints of purple circles. “Simmons, what the fuck is going on? The island, you…you were at the island, and then-“

“Wasn’t me, dumbass,” Simmons murmurs, his hands to himself now as his arms wrap around his knees. Grif can just barely see the cluster of freckles on his elbow, and he stares at them as he listens to his voice. He loves how Simmons sounds when he’s quiet. “I’ve got a lot to catch you up on. While you were fucking relaxing, we’ve been going through some bullshit.”

Grif sits up slowly, watching him in amazement. He reaches, runs his fingers through Simmons’ hair, and sighs in relief. That’s right. It feels like…well, like nothing else he’s ever felt before. His brain supplies ‘home’ as he stares at the sliver of his face that’s visible. “Sorry,” he mumbles when Simmons just looks at him. “I almost forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

Grif doesn’t answer him, using his hand in Simmons’ hair to tug him forward and press their lips together firmly. Simmons’ lips are dry and a little chapped, but still soft and perfect. Simmons is still, not returning the affection, and it takes Grif a long moment to notice before he slowly pulls away. “…you’re mad at me.”

Simmons scoffs, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. “What are we, fucking ten?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you stop acting like a pouty kid and I won’t be so confused,” Grif snaps back, unable to help responding to Simmons’ volatility. He feels the familiar racing of his heart, the heat in his cheeks, and he remembers why he loves to fight Simmons. “You’re the one who left me, asshole.”

“To help the others!” Simmons hisses. Grif isn’t sure if anyone else was in the dark room with them, if there are other cells like theirs, but if they don’t make a noise if so.

  
“Since when do you give a fuck about the Blues?” Grif scoffs, even though he knows he’s full of shit the second it comes out of his mouth. They’ve all given way too many fucks about the Blues for way too many years.

“Fuck off, Grif,” Simmons huffs, calling him the fuck out, and turns away. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Yeah.” Grif doesn’t apologize, or try to pretend that he’s not just that – full of it. Wouldn’t make any sense if he did, Simmons would just know. And then he’d be a liar on top of everything else. “…I’m really sorry I didn’t come with you.”

Simmons frowns slightly, still not looking at him. “…I’m sorry I didn’t stay. Should have.”

“Nah.” Grif sits back, his back pressed to a cold wall, probably concrete. “So, uh. Where the fuck are we?”

“Long fucking story. I’ll tell you after you kiss me some more.”

***

The morning is uncomfortable. Apparently the others are in cells across from and beside them, but they’d all been asleep when Grif first woke. Most everyone seems pretty happy to see him, although Tucker basically tells him he can get fucked with a rusty pipe. Which, whatever. He’ll probably get over it within the hour. That’s just how Tucker is, he can’t hold a fucking grudge against any of them to save his life.

“So, wait. That guy on the moon wasn’t you.” Grif says slowly, looking at Simmons like he’s grown another head. “But…he sounded like you. Like, exactly.”

“Yeah. Don’t talk about it,” Simmons mutters, looking vaguely disturbed. “But yeah, not me. These fuckers are all sim troopers, like us, and they wanna basically fuck up the remaining freelancers. Led by a freak show named Temple.”

“Temple…like…Church…?”

“I know.”

“What the fuck is happening?”

“Yeah, good question. Let’s just figure out how the fuck to get out of here.”

“Sounds fucking great. Anyone have an idea other than sitting here tickling our assholes?” Tucker snaps, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Wash and Carolina are fuck knows where, so he’s a little pissier than usual. Which is saying something, lately.

They all look up at once as the door to the small room opens with a noisy scrape, making Grif grimace slightly. A Blue soldier steps through, silent and glancing briefly over his shoulder. A sniper rifle is strapped to his back, and his helmet is domed, reflecting the light from the bare bulb in the center of the room. Grif only has a moment to inhale through his nose in realization before the blue begins to melt away, replaced by steel and green.

…what the fuck?

***

Apparently the freelancers have been in the basement the whole time. Typical. Freelancers are never around when you actually want them. Temple had placed Wash and Carolina under armor lock with a bunch of other dead freelancers around them like some kind of fucking super villain, so the guy’s already skyrocketed to the top of Grif’s shit list.

Locus gets their armor unlocked and then almost immediately have to catch them before they break themselves on the fucking floor. It’s been days, apparently, so Grif isn’t really sure how they’re still conscious, but whatever. Tucker hauls up Wash and Grif pulls Carolina to her feet, and they shuffle the pair of limp fucking noodles out of the nightmare room and into the hallway. Grif locks the place behind them, shuddering.

“Just give me a minute,” Carolina groans, sinking down to the floor and rolling her neck. Her hair is matted and the circles under her eyes are a deep purple. Wash isn’t even on this plane of fucking existence, babbling nonsensical shit and not arguing when Tucker takes him the fuck off the mission roster instantly. That’s how you know it’s bad.

“Are you serious?” Grif snorts, looking down at Carolina with a raised eyebrow. She looks back at him in what he supposes is meant to be an intimidating manner, but all he can see is her purple eyes and her matted hair. “Super unchill, Lina. Remember your training.”

“I’m not gonna just sit here,” she tells him dismissively. “Especially with Wash out of commission.” She gives Locus a mistrusting look, but he doesn’t seem to notice, too busy keeping his eye on either end of the hallway. Grif’s gotta admit, he’s not super wild about the new development, either, but they don’t have a lot of options.

“Carolina, don’t be a fucking idiot,” Tucker snaps, giving her a hard stare.

“It’s not up for debate,” she tells him sharply, and the two of them have a silent eye-contact-fight and Grif is really starting to question Sarge trying to claim Carolina as a Red. She’s got a lot of the Blue melodrama.

“Can we fucking go?” Simmons interrupts, huffing impatiently, and Grif exchanges an exasperated look with him. Fucking Blue Team Problems. If they’d spend half as much time actually doing shit as they do crying all over each other, they might not have so much drama.

Tucker heaves a harsh sigh and hooks Wash’s arm over his shoulders. “Let’s get Wash somewhere he can chill out of the line of fire.”

“Tucker, we don’t have time, we should just keep him with us,” Carolina argues, frowning.

“And risk him getting shot while he’s a fucking loony tune? Fuck you, dude. And don’t think you’re gonna be waltzing around in a firefight, either. Let’s go.”

“What?” Carolina scoffs, glowering at Tucker’s hand when he offers it. “You can’t force me to sit out, Tucker.”

“No, but I can ask,” Tuckers says firmly, staring into her eyes. Grif trades another look with Simmons; fucking hell. “Stay with Wash and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. When you’re feeling better, then we’ll talk. We don’t have time for you two to get even more fucked up than you already are.”

Carolina scowls harder, then glances at Wash and appears to soften a bit. Grif glances at him too, raising an eyebrow; he’s got his face shoved into Tucker’s neck and is humming some weird ass song Grif’s certainly never heard. Tucker either doesn’t notice or is too on edge to react.

“Fine,” Carolina mutters, and Tucker nods, instantly helping her to her feet.

“Great. This way.”

“Fucking finally,” Simmons mutters, and Grif snorts, nudging him with his elbow.

***

Everything’s gotten pretty fucking hairy, and Grif has his gun drawn on two sets of maroon armor, one containing Dick Simmons and the other a fucking jackass. Well, maybe they both contain a jackass. But one of them is his jackass.

“Grif,” one of them shouts, holding a dagger in his hand and struggling to bury it in the other’s collar. They’re engaged in a battle of strength, and appear to be evenly matched, and if Grif doesn’t make a move they’re both gonna fucking pitch over the edge of the ledge they’re teetering on. Shit, fuck, balls. “Grif, shoot him! He’s Gene!”

“No!” the other cries, his voice squeaking. Very Simmons-like, but their voices are identical, so fuck and shit. “He’s the fake! I’m the real Simmons!”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?!” Grif screeches, his anxiety skyrocketing. Fuck they sound identical, and he can’t take their helmets off, and Gene has adjusted his visor filter so it matches Simmons’ and fuuuuuck. He’s wildly debating with himself on a scale of one to stereotypical how embarrassing it would be to take his fucking inhaler right now. “Uhhh…what’s my first name?”

“Dexter,” they both call out in unison, and Grif swears harshly under his breath. Fuck, fuck, okay, too easy. Gene probably saw his records or some shit.

“Okay uh, shit shit, uh…” Wait. “…why are we here?” he calls suddenly, tightening his grip on his pistol.

Both men stare at him for a moment, still struggling but distracted. “What?” one of them asks.

“Why are we here?” Grif repeats through his teeth. “Answer me. Now.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We’re here to kill these evil fucks!”

Grif points his pistol in that one’s general direction, though he still isn’t one hundred percent positive. Simmons might not remember. That was…God, fucking years ago, now.

“No…we don’t know why we’re here.” Grif’s heart stops for a moment and his eyes flit to the right, knowing he’s staring straight into Simmons’ eyes despite the helmets. “It’s still one of life’s great mysteries, isn’t it?”

God, Grif is gonna put a fucking ring on this jackass. He grits his teeth and shoots Gene in the gut, not even waiting for him to crumple to the ground before tearing off his helmet and sprinting for Simmons. Simmons appears to have had the same idea, as his face is suddenly visible and Grif doesn’t break his nose crashing into his visor, meeting soft cheeks and lips instead.

“Fuck. I love you.”

Grif had expected that the world might stop turning, or maybe it would be raining, or something, when he finally said it. But Simmons just laughs shakily, his arms tight around him, and the world isn’t altered. Just them. “Jesus, you fucking sap,” Simmons murmurs, grinning down at him.

“Yeah, whatever,” Grif huffs, kissing him firmly again. “Let’s go, before the others get fucked up and then somehow it’s our fault.”

Grif turns, then is pulled back again by a hand around his wrist and finds himself kissing Simmons again, more gently and with knuckles brushing his cheekbone. “I love you, too,” Simmons murmurs, just audible over the distant sounds of gunfire and shouting, wind ruffling their hair.

Grif swallows, looking away and clearing his throat loudly. “Right. Cool. Uh. Let’s go.” Simmons grins again and nods, putting his helmet back on and following on his heels.

***

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Simmons, I swear to fucking God, you say that one more time and I’m gonna shoot you again myself.”

Simmons scoffs, then grunts and pulls a face. He slides down the wall with Grif’s help, going gray as he continues to bleed all over Grif’s hand. Grif had snatched some random ass armor from a storage unit so he could lessen his chances of getting shot (his own was still on the moon somewhere). He’d almost died putting on the regulation red, feeling way too much like fucking Sarge for his own liking, but now he was glad for it. He couldn’t see how much of Simmons’ blood was actually all over his hands and forearms.

There’s still a firefight in the background, the others all scrambling to stop Temple from fucking up the entire world with shit he doesn’t understand. Grif just needs to get Simmons stabilized, then he can go help, he’s not gonna let them down again this time. He pats around the unfamiliar armor, looking for medigel or a healing unit or just, fucking something. He finds a medigel cannister and swears harshly in relief, yanking it out and shaking it up for a moment. “Okay. This is gonna fucking suck, you ready?”

“Yeah, just fucking do it already,” Simmons tells him through gritted teeth; bracing himself. He clenches his jaw, then grunts as Grif presses down on the nozzle and starts plugging the wound. “Fuck! Fuck me, fuck me fucking sideways,” Simmons hisses, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

“Maybe later, alright, damn,” Grif jokes shakily, peering down to see what he’s doing. “Keep it in your pants until after the mission.”

“You are n-not fucking funny, Dexter.”

“Am too.” Grif reaches with his free hand to take Simmons’, squeezing tightly. “You’re fine, babe, don’t be a wimp.”

Simmons nods firmly, though he looks even more gray than before. “Yep. Totally fine.”

Grif finishes his shitty patch job, watching it for a moment before deciding it’ll have to do. “Okay. You gotta stay here, I’m gonna go help,” he says, pressing his forehead firmly to Simmons’. It’s a little clammy, but he forces the worry down. “Put your helmet back on and just stay low. You get shot again and I swear to God I’m divorcing you.”

“We’re not married.”

“Eh. That’s up for debate.”

Simmons scoffs weakly, tilting his head up to keep him, quick but firm. “I love you. Be careful.”

“Sap.” Grif pecks him again in return, before shoving his helmet back on. “Love you, too.”

***

“Jesus, Grif, you let the place go to shit.”

Simmons is standing in the doorway of their bedroom, hands on his hips. He’s in new civvies, clean, wrapped up in bandages and covered in bruises and healing scrapes. The bedroom back on their moon still looks like a fucking tornado ran through it; Grif had truly been cleaning while they were gone, but he’d made a fucking mess the day he was searching for the shirt that felt like Simmons’ hair, and then he’d been captured the day after.

“Uh, yeah,” Grif says awkwardly, not wanting to share that much weirdness. Not even with Simmons. He has to keep something for himself, and it might as well be the sheer level of fucked that his head is. “Sorry about that.”

Simmons just scoffs, entering the room and putting all of the t-shirts in a pile at the foot of the bed. “What the fuck were you doing? These are all clean,” he asks, sending him a teasing smirk.

“Nothin’. Couldn’t uh, couldn’t find a shirt I was looking for. Then I got captured and didn’t get a chance to clean up.”

“Excuses.” Grif knows he’s joking, but that doesn’t stop him from tugging on an orange curl as he comes to sit by Simmons on the bed. It’s been so long, but it almost seems as if Simmons never left. He frowns as Simmons’ jaw drops a little, and he follows his line of sight, wincing almost immediately. “Grif, what the fuck happened to the bathroom sink?!”

“…it was dripping.”

“…okay. So you fucking Hulk smashed it?”

“Basically.”

Simmons blinks at him a few times, then just shakes his head. “I’ll bribe Caboose into fixing it for us.”

Grif snorts and nods, picking at a bit of loose stitching on the duvet. It’s quiet for a while, silent inside of their room save for the muffled sounds of voices outside. The Blues aren’t back yet, preferring to stay at the hospital with Wash and Carolina until they’re released. Grif would like to say it’s been peaceful without them, but Sarge and Donut almost appear to be being fucking louder than usual, if possible, to make up for the absence. Donut’s probably working on setting something on fire just to lighten the mood.

“How are you feeling?” Grif asks after a while, frowning worriedly down at Simmons’ bandaged torso. He insists that it looks worse than it is, but Grif won’t be forgetting the gray tone of his skin, or the warmth of his blood, any time soon.

Simmons shrugs, wincing just a bit as he swings his legs up on the bed and lays back against the pillows. Grif scoots to stretch out beside him, resting his ear where Simmons’ heart beats. “Not bad,” Simmons says, and his voice sounds deeper with Grif’s ear pressed against him like that. “Twinges a little, but I’ll just take it easy for a bit.”

“I remember when you used to bitch after every bullet,” Grif smirks, closing his eyes as Simmons wraps an arm around his shoulders and the warmth of his body envelopes him. “And yet, somehow, you were still chill about going full cyborg.”

“Yeah, because it was either that or you died, dumbass,” Simmons scoffs, and Grif knows he’s rolling his eyes even if he can’t see him at the moment. “And I’d do it again.”

“God. We’re getting sappy with age.”

Simmons snickers, nodding in agreement. “Yeah. Couple of sappy old fucks.”

“Mhm.”

“You wanna get married?”

Grif pauses, eyes flying open. He doesn’t lift his head yet, wondering if he could have possibly heard that wrong. “Uhhh…what?”

He looks up when Simmons is silent, and notices that he’s gone completely red, all the way down past the collar of his shirt. “I just…I dunno. Retirement. Seems like a good time to do it. We don’t have to, I mean, I don’t care, but-“

Grif kisses him softly, smiling widely against his mouth. “Married, huh?”

“…yeah.”

Grif pauses, tapping his finger with his chin while Simmons smirks and lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “Alright, but on one condition. We’re fucking eloping, I don’t want any of these assholes there.”

Simmons bursts out into a loud laugh, holding him closer and kissing him again. “Yeah, fuck yeah, you read my fucking mind.”

***

It happens on a beach in Hawaii, with Kai as a witness. They’re ankle deep in the sea, edges of their shorts getting soaked and their hair whipped wild by the wind. Simmons keeps laughing throughout the vows, and Grif has been grinning for so long that his cheeks hurt. When they’re finally wearing the rings Simmons yanks him forward by his collar, kissing him firmly to the tune of Kai screaming at them to use more tongue. Grif laughs, flashing her his middle finger before surging forward to kiss his husband again. His reason, the reason why he’s here.

**Author's Note:**

> Below is a link to the art post on tumblr!
> 
> https://twinkletwinkleunclefloyd.tumblr.com/post/167625831676/red-vs-blue-reverse-big-bang-submission

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Red vs Blue Reverse Big Bang Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757698) by [dorky (dorcas_gustine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcas_gustine/pseuds/dorky)




End file.
